A Lannister Takes
by tmitnaiael
Summary: It's not particularly magical. In truth it's a bit rough, a bit too clumsy in not the most pleasant way, but it's something in the way he looks at her—really looks at her.


**prompt** AU: Robert dies in the Rebellion, and the already-married Ned Stark is now King. With no crown to be had, Cersei finds herself being shipped off to wed the new Lord of Winterfell, Benjen Stark.  
**note**This was going good places until it got weird and then it wasn't. Really, really didn't do justice to this fabulous prompt.

* * *

Her first wedding is to Jaime. It begins and ends with a sloppy kiss in the Sept when they are hardly seven. It is just a silly game, really, because she is marrying herself.

She marries Prince Rhaegar a thousand times in her head. She is a woman grown but this is even more innocent than the first. She imagines his hands holding hers, his violet eyes full of warmth as the Septon weds them, but of course neither of them really hears his words, so entranced and in love as they are.

Robert Baratheon is betrothed to the Stark girl, but father says it can be set aside and she does not doubt that; Tywin Lannister is never refused. The war is not yet won but she is eager for the day she will become Robert's queen. She dreams of a grand feast, a beautiful gown, of the hardness of Robert's body.

When Cersei does wed, it is to Benjen Stark under blood red leaves in the quiet of the wolfswood. She is resplendent as always but the northerners wear their long solemn faces and her kin look no happier.

It is when her husband leans forward to brush a cold kiss to her lips that she learns the bitter taste of disappointment.

* * *

A Lannister takes what is offered but there is little to take and even less that is offered in the north. Its people are as cold and empty as the land.

Her bed is made, the rushes are changed, the household sees to it that she is fed and it is all done with that cool northern disdain. Her husband does his duty by her but he shares his brother's mislike of Lannisters; their every interaction is grating.

She is left alone in a cold castle where there is no Jaime and being the daughter of Tywin Lannister holds no weight. She would have the Rains of Castamere played, to remind them, but there are never any singers in Winterfell. Cersei contents herself with humming it when she is angry, and she is angry often; she is the Lady of Winterfell in name only. Lyanna Stark is dead but the shadow she casts is long. Cersei is hidden in it as the north and her husband still grieve.

To occupy herself she walks the corridors until she can navigate them blindfolded. She examines each flagstone critically and thinks, bitterly but sadly, _one day my children will be running over these_. She presses her ear to the walls to listen for the water they say is piped through but she hears nothing.

For two moons Cersei floats through the castle a ghost none care to see, until word arrives that the King, who had not attended their wedding, is on his way. It is the maester who tells her this, fishing through his pockets to hand her the letter. A Lannister takes what is offered and Cersei takes this with two hands and a gracious smile.

* * *

Winterfell's Great Hall is not grand enough, not illustrious enough. It is too cold. It seems empty, too, despite the guests.

It is not the feast she would have planned for Casterly Rock. The steward had frowned at the figures she calculated, the cook had fretted over the courses she planned, and Benjen had only shrugged and said _winter is coming, my lady_.

It is embarrassing to host such a meagre feast but there is little that can be done once a Stark starts parroting his words.

She sits at her husband's side in a crimson dress and drinks only enough wine to keep warm. Cersei smiles at the northern lords and ladies but she is utterly bored by this hall of hard people in their dark furs.

Benjen had been solemn at their wedding feast but now he is merry. He laughs with his brother—or, without his brother, really; the King does not even have a face for laughter, let alone one for kingship—he laughs with his good sister, with his bannermen, even with the squires who sit to the sides of the hall. He has no laughter for a Lannister, though. She does not care in the slightest.

The King summons her just as she is about to retire. She can't help but think he was waiting for that as she stomps, irritated, to the solar. But when she enters she sees his bastard son is with him and Cersei understands at once; her foul mood dissipates. It is all she can do not to laugh.

"Jon is of the North," Eddard Stark tells her gravely. She mimics his expression so as not to smile. "I would have him at Winterfell, if it please you."

He is her King and could order this of her, but this happens to please her immensely. A bastard is a bastard, but the well–loved bastard of a king is something entirely different. A Lannister takes and one day these Starks will learn what that means.

She gives her consent.

When Cersei takes her leave she finds her husband waiting outside wearing the face of the Lord of Winterfell. _To speak with the King_, she assumes from his stern expression, _of those infernal wildlings_.

"I will not be raising any of your bastards," she warns, just in case.

His chuckle is not unpleasant.

* * *

Cersei leaves Jon Snow in the care of the household and some old woman alleged to be her own husband's wet nurse, or some such, but the boy begins to trail after her skirts and call her _Mother_. Eddard Stark's bastard is the only company she has in this desolate castle so she finds herself overlooking this.

"Aunt Cersei," she will correct, but not too primly, and only in the company of others.

Jon becomes her companion as she takes up wandering the corridors once again, when the royal family has left and Winterfell is empty of its guests. She sings the Rains of Castamere to him and sometimes finds herself laughing aloud at the thought that one day, not understanding its meaning, Eddard Stark's bastard might sing it to his father. On rare occasions she settles him on her hip and suffers his fascination with her hair—his pulling, twisting, knotting—to tell him stories of Casterly Rock, of Jaime's feats, of her own mother.

She understands, after all, what it is like to have your mother taken from you.

Cersei is telling the boy of her earliest memory of her mother—it is just a hazy image, her mother smiling above her, hair bright like summer—when the door to her chambers is opened. Jon is balanced on her knee and though she knows, dimly, that he is nearly asleep, she has continued talking. She drops off mid–word when her husband steps in; it seems his words die on his lips as well. For a moment she cannot read his expression but then he schools it into that familiar serious, long–drawn Stark face.

He clears his throat. "I am glad to see you getting along with Jon."

The door closing behind him jars Jon awake.

* * *

The afternoon's incident—if that's what it was—must have prompted this unexpected visit, Cersei thinks. Benjen Stark comes to her bed only when she is said to be most fertile. His visits are silent, quick, and she spends them with her eyes screwed tight, trying desperately to imagine it is Jaime moving above her.

Tonight he is yammering. He is not, as she had previously thought, a man of few words as his brother seems to be, though the few conversations he has with her have are always short, often terse, and strictly related to her duties.

He is speaking of children or chances or something but Cersei is not listening. She is watching him. She realizes suddenly that she has never looked at him, this man who is her husband. She has spent time enough likening him to his brother or contrasting him with her own, but she has never quite seen _him_.

Cersei had thought him a younger, crownless Eddard Stark. But there is mirth in his eyes when he speaks, even on serious subjects, and lately she thinks she sees it when he speaks with her as well, where once his eyes had looked down on her with thinly–veiled disdain. His voice, too, often lilts upwards as though he speak a jape, akin to the lazy, uncaring, amused voice with which Jaime always speaks.

He's still prattling on, though, and Cersei never had the patience for or interest in simply watching.

"Just fuck me already."

It is cold, she is dressed only in the thinnest of shifts, and she can see him hard beneath his smallclothes. She is curious, as well, to see if it will be different to fuck him without thinking of Jaime.

He's staring at her, bewildered.

Cersei is a lion. She pounces.

* * *

She is woken by a hand to her shoulder.

"Come."

Cersei squints, frowns, checks the window to see if it is the morn yet and it is not. She has every intention of growling her displeasure when her husband repeats, "Come."

There is something grave in his voice so she does not protest.

Jon Snow has snuck his way into her chambers once again. She gently disengages his fingers from her hair and slips a sleeping robe over her shift. She can feel Benjen's eyes on her as she dresses, recognizes that _looking–but–trying–not–to–look_ gaze that men often give, and catalogues the moment away for future.

He leads her down the musty passageway to the crypts. Cersei does not want to be here. It reminds her that one day her children will be buried with the Starks—that her children will be Starks.

They walk past long dead stone men with rust, if not swords, on their thighs until stopping before a woman. Cersei has already forgotten the girl, but it must be a good likeness. The sculptor has crafted it as though he knew and loved her. It is eerie, the way it feels more than a statue.

Benjen is quiet, might even be smiling, but he is too slow. She is about to turn away when he begins: "Lyanna was Lady of Winterfell after our mother died. As you were of Casterly Rock. She was my best friend, my dearest sister."

"Prince Rhaegar crowned her Queen of Love and Beauty," Cersei says, because that is all she can think to say.

His mouth twists. "He did. You mustn't hold it against her. Though were I a young maid I should have envied her Rhaegar's attentions, I am sure."

A proper waste of time. "I am returning to bed."

He stills her with a hand to her forearm. "She was Winterfell's mistress in a way you are not. Not because you are not a Stark, but... you insist on wearing Southron hairstyles, on dressing in crimson and gold. You mislike our furs—you refuse to wear them though we all know how chill you are from the goosepimples on your forearms; you mislike the North, and you mislike Winterfell."

"It is not mislike," Cersei lies. He's gone and reminded her of how cold it is down here, how thinly dressed she is. She resists the urge to rub the bumps of cold from her arms.

"It may have started as something else. You resent your father for sending you here."

"You do not know—"

"You resent Ned for being King; perhaps you even resent Robert Baratheon as well for that. I imagine you resent me simply for being the Stark you were made to wed."

She is not insecure enough—or at all—to ask if he resents her being a Lannister. It would not matter regardless.

"The castle does not ask you to be Lyanna's replacement, or to forget that you are a Lannister. But winter is coming and you must learn to adapt. You do not know the north or its people—"

"I know the Stark bannermen, their words and their sigils. There is nothing more _to_ know."

"Learning your Septa's lessons is not enough. You are not Northron enough to command respect here. When you learn to reconcile your Lannister pride—"

"I do not wish to be Northron," Cersei snarls. She glides off before he can make to stop her.

There is a book, however, on her bed that night of Northron histories. Cersei finds herself leafing through it. If only to pass the time.

* * *

She flinches from the smell of trout, misses her moon's blood, and learns she is with child. There is no longer any need for Benjen to do his duty.

Cersei had not expected that that would be a problem.

She foregoes her smallclothes, thinks of Jaime's lips or Jaime's fingers or Jaime's cock. Sometimes she wonders what it would feel like to stroke her own cock, the ones the Gods had not given her, and she will find her hand slipping upwards, closing around air; when she finishes her muffled scream is as much pleasure as it is disappointment.

She forgets, just once, to bar the door. It is midday when Benjen strides in without so much as a knock.

He inisists on doing his own justice, and she had always thought that some irritatingly silly Stark trait. Afterwards he will go to the godswood to brood about the meaning of death, or the like, but if the blood speckled on him is any indication he has yet to. It is the first bit of real color she has seen in the north and she stares.

Her skirts are rucked up and her hand is between her legs. There is really no mistaking this for anything but what it is.

"Sorry—I'll come back."

Jaime always looked at her with green eyes bright with desire. Benjen's are dark, murky almost, but she recognizes the desire and is surprised at the thrill that runs through her.

"No," she murmurs, hoping she does not seem as startled as she feels, "You will come now."

He brings her off with just the three fingers of one hand, the other resting lightly on her thigh yet heavy in her mind. It's not particularly magical. In truth it's a bit rough, a bit too clumsy in not the most pleasant way, but it's something in the way he looks at her—really _looks_at her, eyes still dark almost black, that makes her peak.

* * *

There is a game she has played only with Jaime.

Testing her teeth to his lobe when she could hear footsteps approaching around the corner or whispering obscene promises in an ear when he converses with others.

She begins to play this game with Benjen.

* * *

The cook has taken to badgering her at least twice a day, asking if there is anything in particular the babe wants. On one day he asks four times before noon.

"Moon tea," she snaps, feeling a savage satisfaction when he flinches away like she's struck him.

Benjen comes to her chambers late that night, bars the door and just stands there distractingly, making it impossible to continue feigning sleep.

Cersei throws the furs off with abandon, purses her lips, and—

—and whatever growl she had meant to give him is forgotten: there is a dark look in his eyes like he had had the other day but this one almost scares her, which is absurd.

"I should not have japed like that," she admits begrudgingly when his silence becomes too much. "But if you expect me to apologize—"

"No, my lady. I do not. That would be outside your duties, and tax too greatly on your Lannister pride, I fear. Though it is to the babe, to yourself as well, that I think you most owe."

Were this Jaime she would push her nightdress down her shoulders and wring his anger from him with open–mouthed kisses and nails raking crimson trails down his back.

Cersei is not sure what to do with Benjen Stark.

* * *

Jon Snow's hands are soft, tentative, on her face but they wake her anyhow. She swats them away and sits up.

"Mother," the boy begins.

She mumbles, "An heir. That is all my father expected of me. To wed and bear an heir." To wed and birth princes, yet she could not even do that. Catelyn Tully had already birthed one prince, and if the Gods were cruel—which they were—likely had another on the way. Her own sons would be but cousins to princes and made to rule the vast cold of the north. "I should have been his first son."

"Mother, why are you crying?"

"Do not be ridiculous. I am not crying." She touches her fingertips to her cheeks. Her face is wet. Her cheeks are hot. The room is hot. Sweat. Her shifts sticks damply to her skin. "Lions do not cry."

"Do wolves?"

Her laughter is half a snort. Benjen had not cried, when he took her to see his dear dead sister. Solemn dour Eddard Stark had probably not cried a day in his life. Had Brandon Stark cried, when the mad king strangled the life from him as his father cooked? Jaime would know. "No, I suppose they do not."

"Then I shall not—"

"Wolves will remain wolves but you are snow, Jon, and you will melt. The Gods are cruel, even your father's nameless ones. They have made you a bastard though you are more Stark than the prince."

"Mother—"

"I am tired. Sleep or I will send to your chambers."

* * *

He's penning a letter when she barges into his solar.

"The cook's name is Gage. His wife is with child. I apologized. And I am done—" he hasn't looked up so Cersei drops the book of Northron histories as obnoxiously as she can "—with this."

He does not so much as blink. "Did he happen to tell you what he would name the child?"

"Radish."

He snorts. "Turnip. And you said?"

"That it sounded a fine name and that my thoughts are with his wife."

"Please, my lady."

"I… told him that was somewhat morbid, for a cook." _Disgustingly morbid_ were the words she had used.

She is startled when he laughs. "Thank the Gods. Someone had to."

A running direwolf in white–grey wax seals the letter. When she looks up from it he is smiling at her. She had forgotten what that looked like—what is _felt_ like, to be on the receiving end of Benjen Stark's smile. She had not even known she missed it.

"Though I do not suppose even you can stop him."

* * *

Benjen begins to take liberties.

Resting his hand over her knee at dinner.

Sleeping in her chambers after they have made—after he has done his duty.

Affectionately shortening her name to Cers though—maybe even because—he knows it irritates her. ("Ben," he insists. "Everyone calls me Ben." She keeps her mouth firmly shut to prevent from testing it out.)

Cersei supposes there are worse liberties a husband can take.

* * *

The maester had been easy to avoid earlier but now that she is heavy with child everything is difficult. He has joined the little train that follows her about the castle, consisting of Jon Snow, the cook, and even the simpleminded stableboy, whom Cersei imagines does not have any reason at all for joining in other than to join in.

"My lady—!"

She stops and turns only because Jon—who is supposed to be on her side!—has grabbed onto her skirts and is tugging quite fiercly. Hopefully this is not about the feast. She is not interested in planning another droll northern feast.

"The furs become you, my lady. This—" the maester extends his hands "—is for you, Lady Cersei. It contains a rather fascinating history—"

"Another book."

"—of the—yes, my lady. It contains—"

"Gods, it's about that damned Wall isn't it?"

"Yes, my—"

"No. I think not. I've done my studying, I've learned my histories."

"Then this, Lady Cersei? If you will permit…"

She cannot even begin to fathom how he had fit such a large book in the sleeves of his robes. Or why he would possibly expect she would want to read it.

"Detailed accounts of the histories of northern families. Quite a rare book. Rather entertaining, in fact. There are only two known—"

"A rare book, Maester, is not always an entertaining one." Jon is no longer tugging but his grip is a vice and Cersei worries he will pull hairs from the fur coat she is wearing for the first time today. "I don't care for northern—"

_Command respect_ Benjen had said. Her father had always commanded respect through fear. She had seen Benjen with his bannermen enough to know they did not fear him but they did respect him. That was just stubborn northern loyalty, wasn't it? Surely it would be their doom some day.

She hesitates. "You may leave it in my chambers. Perhaps I shall read some to Jon. The King's bastard must know these things, I suppose."

"Additionally, my lady, the cook would like to add two courses."

"But _winter is coming_," and Gods, she could slap herself. The words had just slipped out.

His smile is there, just barely. She could slap him too for that. "Indeed, my lady."

* * *

Tonight he is much too cautious, much too hesitant, and it makes her nervous.

"What?"

Benjen only continues looking at her and she thinks she sees pity. She snaps: "What?"

"Your mother…," he tries, then stops, tries again, "You have been having nightmares."

"I haven't." Her hand twists into her skirts. The words taste wrong on her tongue though she had thought them true until she remembers, suddenly, what she had forgotten.

Bleeding Lannister crimson in this cold white land, surrounded by the blank faces of Northron men she does not know.

A little creature clawing its way out of her body.

"It's nothing," she amends. "Nothing."

His hand settles over her belly. She can feel its warmth through her dress. He had seemed so cold, the first time he had touched her. "You will be fine."

"I know."

* * *

Someone has been leaving winter roses on her pillow. Cersei had thought it Jon until she catches the interloper and it is Benjen.

She laughs until he reddens but she is more pleased than she thought she could ever possibly be by something so small, by something so northern.

* * *

A son, golden–haired with her green eyes. She sees him so often in her better dreams that when she births a daughter she is too shocked to feel disappointment or pity.

Benjen enters with Jon, whom Cersei knows had been waiting anxiously outside, toddling behind.

"You have been doing your justice," she observes. "Jon has brought me winter roses and you have brought me a dead man's head."

"Forgive me, my lady. If I had known—I should have been here with you. I will be, the next time."

She aches. Her head lolls. Benjen is holding her daughter and she is crying—no, screaming maybe roaring, a Lannister.

"She is your image."

"Maester Luwin has seen my cunt. We cannot go back to…" What had they been before this? Ah, maester and lady. But he recommends her books and she devours them and that makes her wonder, maybe, if that wasn't something like a friendship. "…a line has been crossed."

She can hear it, in his voice; like he's smiling and on the verge of laughter but trying not to. She doesn't mind. "So it seems."

Maester Luwin, she is sure, has coloured crimson. He manages, "Have you thought of a name?"

What a strange time it is to realize, but she is the Lady of Winterfell.

She is the Lady of Winterfell and a Lannister and she had, somehow, reconciled them without even meaning to. She had grown to enjoy raising Jon, discusisons with the maester, the Southron delicacies the cook made for her on occasion, had grown to like—maybe even love her husband. Of all the men she had thought to love he had never been one.

She is the Lady of Winterfell and so Old Nan will tell her daughter hearth stories, as she does to Jon. The castle will dote on her daughter—_dote_ not just obey her, as Cersei had been obeyed at Casterley Rock. Gage would bake her cakes, if she liked them. The master of horse would find her the finest filly, if she liked to ride. The girl could even be betrothed to the prince, be Queen herself some day.

A Lannister takes, and maybe this one could take a northern name. "Lyanna," she says. And again, more sure: "Lyanna."

She is tired and her eyes slip closed but she reaches out to touch his face, to read his expression. "If it please you—," and she says, for the first time, "—Ben," and there is nothing better than the feel of his smile beneath her fingers.


End file.
